Dresden
by Abracadebra
Summary: There comes a point when explosions no longer fill you with the glee of a Fourth of July fireworks display.A reflection on the 74th anniversary of the beginning of the Dresden firebombing. Inspired by Book 'em Again's question on the Which of Our Heroes thread & in response to Challenge #237. Winner of three Papa Bear Awards including Gold/Best Short Drama and Bronze/Best Overall.


**DRESDEN**

If you'd asked me to pick which one of my core team would have landed in hot water after we got home from Stalag 13… well, the answer would have been pretty obvious.

Newkirk, right? Anyone would have said that. Just think about it. He had a messy past, loads of scrapes with the law. With a small-time crook for a father, the odds were pretty low that he would turn out to be a Boy Scout. He needed guidance, direction, and a strong hand, and I like to think I gave him those things. But he had a few months left in the military, and I worried that mouth of his would get him in trouble eventually. You could call him insubordinate, but I preferred to think of him as my own personal devil's advocate. I tolerated his questions and defiance, because he pushed me to think about unexpected consequences, and I never had a moment's doubt about his loyalties. But not many other officers would put up with his lip.

If not Newkirk, then maybe LeBeau. A distant second, but still, maybe. Stubborn as the day is long, that one. He would put his family, friends, and France above any order. The minute he got his back up, emotion overrode all reason. Sure, I could _imagine_ him getting into trouble before he was discharged, though I definitely didn't _expect_ it.

But both of them did better than fine. A few more months in the RAF were good for Newkirk. He could have made a career of it if he hadn't been picked off so fast by – well, I'd better stop myself right there. It's classified and we'll leave it at that. LeBeau had to put in another month with his air force, too, and while I know he was itching to get back to civilian life, he managed to hold his tongue, accept new leadership, do his duty, and earn an honorable discharge.

Of course, I don't even need to mention Kinchloe. Fine soldier. Honorable to the core. No problems there. And believe me, there were plenty of times when he would have been completely justified in popping off. But he's disciplined. He's off to a great career now that's he's an officer.

But you could have knocked me over with a feather when I got that call from Carter. He had the opportunity to make just one call from the brig at Redstone Army Airfield, and he called me. He knew I was in the American Zone, and he had them track me down in Frankfurt.

He didn't even need to ask. I was on the next troop flight out of Germany. It took a lot of puddle-jumping, but a day later I was in Huntsville, Alabama.

It was mid-June. We had just parted ways in London two weeks before. Carter was the first to go home, thanks to his expertise with making things go boom. The Redstone team was designing and testing many of the devices we'd need to end the war. They were recruiting explosives experts, and they wanted Carter. I expected his eyes to light up when he heard about his next assignment, but there was something different in his expression, a weariness I hadn't seen before. They allowed him a week's leave and then it was off to his new duty station. Maybe a week wasn't enough time at home. Maybe he had just cracked after returning stateside. We'd all been gone for so long.

We met that steamy afternoon in the Provost Marshal's office, in a bare room with two chairs and a table in between. Not even a pitcher of water. I waved away the MPs on duty, assuring them that Carter didn't need to be under guard. He was no risk at all. Fortunately, those two stars on my shoulder boards did the trick. The MPs headed down the hall and left me in charge of their prisoner.

We were both a mess. I'd been dripping since I got off the plane, and Carter wasn't much better. Huntsville in summertime is as humid as a wet sponge, and hotter than hell and half of Georgia. Did you know there are 666 species of insect in Alabama? That number seems fitting, and I'm pretty sure every one of those little devils dive-bombed me that day.

"Carter…" I began, wiping my brow with my handkerchief. He cut me off.

"I know what you're going to say, but I can't Colonel. Uh, I mean, General. I won't. I won't do what they are asking of me," he said. His voice was firm. No emotion. Pure conviction. The sweat was dripping down his face, but that was from the heat, not nerves. He hadn't cracked. That wasn't it.

"But Carter, you've built incendiary devices before. Redstone is where it's happening. You can do this. Why are you digging in your heels now?"

"Dresden, Sir," he replied.

"Dresden?" I echoed. He hadn't been there, of course. Dresden was far from Hammelburg. But we heard the reports that last February in camp, and they were horrific. I remember what Newkirk said when he heard the first reports: "Happy Flaming Valentine's Day," and I'm being polite. Newkirk wasn't wrong. We realized _that_ when we got to London for our debriefing and we saw the pictures. The firebombing may have been necessary; I still haven't decided. But it was brutal. The devastation was immeasurable.

I repeated myself. "Dresden, Carter? That's it?"

"Yes, Sir," he said, looking at me earnestly, as if those two words explained everything.

I sighed. "Listen, Carter, we're all working to end this war, and we need you to be part of that. Your skills are vital," I said, keeping my voice soft. I wasn't mad at him, and I wanted him to know I was still on his side. "We're already rebuilding in Europe. But the Pacific—Carter, our boys are still fighting and dying. And the POWs there— well, the reports are not good. Not good at all. We are in a big, final push to end the war in the Pacific theater. It's your duty to help."

I shook my head, momentarily lost in thought. Our intelligence indicated the POWs in Japanese captivity had been through a special kind hell that made even the worst German POW camps look like a walk in the park. Of course nothing could be as incomparably soul-wrenching as seeing the concentration camps in Europe, as we all did in those final days together. But the treatment of a POW at the hands of the Japanese was still pretty high on the list of cruel atrocities that could make you despair for humanity.

I had to put those thoughts aside. I shifted my gaze to Carter, and tried my best to be understanding, although frankly I was pretty bewildered.

"I can get you out of trouble, Carter, but you're going to have to do the work," I told him as gently as I could.

"No, Sir," he said. "I'm declining the assignment."

I wanted to scream at him. Carter could be exasperating, but fundamentally he was a sensible guy. And working with explosives sounded like his dream come true. Declining the assignment? It's the Army – it doesn't work that way! Why was he being so bull-headed? What was he thinking?

"Why, Carter? And don't say 'Dresden' again. What's the real issue here?" An edge was creeping into my voice. I was used to being able to fix things for my boys. I didn't like the way this was going. I didn't like not being in charge of the outcome.

"I've been blowing things up for four years, Sir," he said. " I'm done." Oh. As simple as that.

"You're still in the U.S. Army Air Forces, Lieutenant," I answered. I thought Carter would have been thrilled when they restored his bars during our month in London. I had no doubt he'd rise to the occasion. Aim High. Fly, Fight, Win. Above all, honor. These weren't hard concepts—not for an Eagle Scout like Carter.

"Yes, Sir, I recognize that I am an officer. And I understand the consequences of my actions. But I can't cross this line. I saw devastation all over Germany, and I caused my fair share of it. I knew what I was doing. But when I saw what happened in Dresden… well, I'm not going to help with preparations to firebomb Japanese civilians. I'm just not," he said. "I'm sorry, Sir," he added, his voice cracking for the first time.

I stood up and walked around the table to where Carter sat. He rose and shook my hand. I clasped his shoulder.

"You don't owe me an apology, Carter," I said. I wanted to envelop him in an embrace, but we were on duty. It wasn't an option, not in the Provost Marshal's office.

"I'll talk to General Barton," I told him. "Heck, I'll talk to General Arnold. He'll take it up with Ike. I can get you a transfer. We'll figure something out…"

"Thank you, Sir," Carter cut in. His eyes flickered down, and then he looked back up at me. "But I don't want you to pull any strings. I know it sounds a little crazy, but I want to accept the consequences for this decision. I mean, it'll bother me to be dishonorably discharged, I won't lie. But this is something I need to stand up for. You understand that, don't you, Colonel?"

I let that slip go. And to hell with protocol. I wrapped him in my arms.

"I wish I could say I do understand, Carter," I answered. "Give me time. Give me time."

**H=H=H=H=H**

**Author's Note:** This story was inspired by a question posted by Book 'em Again in the "Which of Our Heroes" thread in Forum XIII-C. I originally published it as part of a story of the same name, but this one is so different in tone from the others that I felt it needed to stand alone. Book 'em's question was: "Which of our heroes was dishonorably discharged from the military, and what did he do?"

And for what it's worth, here is my original answer to Book 'em's question, from March 3, 2015:

_Oh, it makes me sad to think about that. How could any of them commit a dishonorable act?_

_The easy answer is that it's Newkirk, because something in his past caught up with him. But I don't like easy answers. So..._

_Carter is dishonorably discharged. He's already been busted down from Lieutenant to Sergeant. Upon his return to the states, he is assigned to Redstone Army Airfield in Huntsville, Alabama, where incendiary devices are being tested for the firebombing of Japanese cities. Having witnessed the destruction of Dresden in the closing days of the war in the European theater, he cannot in good conscience perform the work to which he has been assigned. Four years in the Army Air Force have cured him of his delight in things that go boom. Despite his exemplary service at Stalag 13 and the intervention of Generals Barton and Hogan, his defiance of authority seals his fate and he is discharged._


End file.
